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OLD ANDY 

THE MOONSHINER 


BY 


MARTHA S. GIELOW 

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AUTHOR OF 


MAMMY’S REMINISCENCES 
OLD PLANTATION DAYS 
FUGITIVE POEMS, ETC., ETC. 



Copyright 1909 

' BY 

Martha S. Gielow 


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OLD ANDY THE MOONSHINER 


A coon skin cap, a heavy home-spun 
flannel blouse open at the neck, home-spun 
breeches tucked into leather leggings, or 
rather pieces of hide bound around the leg 
with leather straps, a long flint lock rifle, 
a leather bag of shot and powder, and a 
lean, lank hound, made up the outfit 
of the rugged old mountaineer known as 
Old Andy, the Moonshiner. For many 
years Old Andy had successfully eluded 
the officers of the law; the revenue de- 
tectives had broken up more than one pri- 
vate distillery in the mountains, and 
were still prowling around in search of 
the one said to be operated by himself. 
His lonely cabin had carefully been located 
and the foxy old hunter closely watched, 
but still the distillery remained an undis- 
covered mystery, and though it was posi- 
tively known that Old Andy had gotten to- 
bacco and “short sweet’ning” (sugar) in 
exchange for more than one jug of juice, 
yet proof was intangible and vague. “Es 
ef I haint a right to do what I choose with 


3 


my own corn,” the old man soliloquised, 
as he smoked his corn cob pipe on the 
great round rock, which made his door 
step. 

“Wall,” replied his wife, who sat smok- 
ing beside him, “ef we can jist hold on 
twell Sal gits to school, we mout lay off a 
bit, and do without shortsweet’ning an 
'baccy, but Sal she’s got to go to that 
school you tells erbout, Andy, what you 
done saw when Uncle Jack give you a lift 
to town that time. Sal’s got to go sho’ an’ 
larn them books.” 

“To be sho, to be sho,” Andy replied re- 
flectively, “Sal’s got to go, but land sakes 
erlive, Percilly, does you know how many 
jugs hit’s gwine to take? Mighty nigh 
onto two hund’ed ! Hit takes fifty dollars, 
’ooman, to put Sal to school ! And at two 
bits a jug for the juice, hit’s gwine to take 
two hund’ed jugs ef not mo’.” 

“How many craps will that be ?” asked 
Percilla. 

“How many craps? Wall, lemme see,” 
answered Andy. “Ef the rain haint too 
heavy, or ef it haint too light, an ef we can 
eat ’taters to lighten up on the bread, an ef 
I can git grass to put with the shucks for 


4 


the critter, we mout make twenty-five jugs 
this fall cornin’, an twenty-five the nex’, 
and the nex’, ontwell we gits the two hun- 
d’ed. ’Twont more’n be eight year, no 
how.” 

“And then thar’s the sellin’, an’ the git- 
tin’ it tuck to town,” said Percilla. 

“Wall, yaas, an thar’s er chanct uv git- 
tin’ tuck up, too,” replied Andy, smiling 
at his own wit, “but Sal’s got to go, Per- 
cilly, Sal’s got to go. Haint I sed so ever 
sence Uncle Jack tuck me to town that 
time ? I hev, an’ I stan’ by what I hev sed. 
Ther lady in that thar school, she sed to 
me, ‘Bring your little gal to me,’ she 
sed, ‘and she shall larn to read these books, 
and to do things like we-uns, she sed, an’ 
she showed me the putties’ frocks them lit- 
tle gals made, — land sakes, all made uv 
sho nuff stuff the color of them blue bells 
on the crick side — it was for sho, an’ she 
sed, she did, that fifty dollars would keep 
Sal thar plum twell crap time. Why, Per- 
cilly, she sed Sal could make a frock jist 
like I tell you, and larn to cook cake I 
tasted thar, and to make sound on a thing 
she called er pianny. And, Percilly, when 


5 


she seen this here old flint rifle, what I had 
slung on my shoulder, she asked me to let 
her look at it, and she showed me these 
here marks on this here side uv it, what I 
aint never noticed befo’. ‘You must hev 
got this,’ she sed, ‘from your ancestors/ 
‘What mout they be?’ I asked. ‘Your 
father’s father,’ she sed, ‘do you remember 
your father’s father, your grandfather?’ 
she sed. ‘To be sho, to be sho,’ I sed, ‘twar 
him what give this old flint to my dad, an’ 
he give it to me, and he tole me at the 
time, ‘Andy,’ he sed, ‘never give her up,’ 
he sed, ‘she’s cum down from the war ’gin 
the British,’ he sed, but he never sed noth- 
in’ ’bout ancestors. ‘Wall, ancestors,’ 
she ses, ‘means your gran’par, and his 
gran’par,’ she ses, ‘an’ they wus brave 
folks,’ she ses, ‘fer they fit for the in- 
dependence uv this country,’ she ses, 
‘an’ when your little gal comes to 
school,’ she ses, ‘she will larn all about 
it.’ ‘Wall,’ I ses, ‘this old flint still 
stands for independence, and I’ll put her 
agin any man what questions my right to 
do what I choose to do with what belongs 
to me,’ an’ I tole her then and thar that Sal 
should cum to school. Then I shouldered 


this ole ‘ancestor’ and started home. Un- 
cle Jack he heerd it all, and he ses, ses he, 
as we driv along back, ‘Andy,’ he says, ‘I 
know whut you air thinking ’bout, and 
I’ll lend you a hand uv er night with the 
juice.’ Wall, I haint tole you, Percilly, 
but thar’s two dollars an’ fo’ bits in a tin 
can in that ole stump out thar on Sal’s 
edycation, and I ’lows to double it putty 
.soon now.” 

“Air you sho hit’s thar, Andy?” asked 
the wife, with an anxious tremble in her 
voice, “air you sho hit’s thar?” 

“Hit war last night, I looks at it most 
every night to make sho he replied, “but 
whar’s Sal, maw?” 

“She’s er settin’ right thar inside the 
do’ er listenin’ to every word you hev 
sed.” 

“Wall, thar’s no harm to that,” the old 
man replied. “Come hyar, Sal, does you 
want to go to school, little gal ?” 

“What’s school like ?” replied Sal, with- 
out moving. 

“Wall, hit’s like, lemme see — wall, hit’s 
like the meetin’ house, only hit haint like 
it. Hit’s got winders, an’ chairs, an’ pic- _ 


7 


turs, an’ books, an’ lots uv little gals lak 
you with ther hair slicked.” 

“An’ frocks like blue bells?” asked the 
child. 

“Wall, I never ! Listen to that, Maw. 
Of cou’se, frocks like blue bells, an’ red 
bells, too ; I seen um both, an’ I hearn ’urn 
sing music, an’ make sound outen that 
pianny box. An’ as fer cookin’, lan’ sakes 
erlive, I haint never tasted no stuff liken 
hit, and I haint never seen a house look 
like that one, nor hev I ever seen flowers er 
growing in rows like them flowers, nor a 
house for chickens befo’. Why the chick- 
ens lives most like folks in town.” 

“Do tell!” exclaimed Percilla. “Wall, 
landsakes, I wouldn’t like to wring thur 
necks of no chickens what lives like folks, 
an’ don’t roost in trees like we-uns’ 
chickens.” 

“What’s town like?” asked Sal. 

“Wall, town hit’s like the mounting ef it 
wan’t a mounting, just plum level like, and 
rows and rows uv cabins that ain’t cabins, 
but houses with rooms an’ rooms er settin’ 
on top uv one ’nuther, an’ rows an’ rows 
uv trees.” 


8 


“No rocks?” asked the child. 

“I never seen none,” replied the grand- 
father. 

“No cricks?” 

“Wall, no, but thar’s a river, an’ er 
house over it, er bridge they call it.” 

“No critters, nor beasties?” continued 
the child. 

“Now, jist listen to that, Maw! Why, 
yaas, Sal, thar air critters and beasties er 
plenty, horses an’ mules.” 

“No cows, nor sheep, nor wild things?” 

“Wall, I never seen ’urn, but then I wus 
er talkin’ to the school-lady what stopped 
us on the road and axed us to come in an’ 
see the school, an’ I never had no time to 
look ’round much. Uncle Jack he seen 
things I never seen, but then he’s been thar 
befo’ and I haint never been beyan’ the 
meetin’ house and the store at the Forks 
befo’.” 

“An’ that’s a long way er foot,” re- 
marked Percilla, as if that was much to be 
proud of. 

“Air there fish in the river?” asked Sal. 

“Wall, I sposen so,” replied Andy, “but 
I doubten it, hit takes the mounting cricks 


9 


for fish, and the mounting trees fur squir- 
rels an’ birds and all sich varmints. But 
you have seen picturs, Sal, uv town, an’ 
them sort uv things in that pictur book the 
school lady sent you. What hev you done 
with it?” 

“Hit’s here, but I thought they wus jist 
picturs.” 

“So they is, but picturs is picturs uv real 
things, Sal; some day you shell see for 
yourself. Thar’s er big country beyan’ the 
mounting, an’ Uncle Jack says thar air 
lots uv towns , lots uv ’em, but you shell 
see for yourself, Sal, when you go to 
school, you shell see.” 

Old Andy looked kindly at the little 
grandchild, who had been left to them 
eight years before by their only daughter, 
who had died in giving it life. There was 
no father ; in fact, had the old moonshiner 
found out who was responsible for the loss 
of his “gal” another life would have been 
rendered up as well. But Sary had kept 
well the secret of her betrayal. She died 
for love, making no effort to live, the 
suppressed grief in her heart at realizing 
that he would not return, being too great 


10 


for her to bear. Andy and Percilla 
seemed to be thinking of Sary, as they 
looked at Sal, and perhaps some suspicion 
of the fact that the father was somewhat 
different from the mountain kind was im- 
pressing itself more and more upon their 
minds, for from birth the marked differ- 
ence between Sal and the other mountain 
children had been evident to all who 
looked upon her. 

“She air different,” was the only com- 
ment of the old man. 

“Yaas, she air different Percilla re- 
plied, as they arose from the rock and 
closed the rude door of the cabin for the 
night, For the “Sable Goddess” of even- 
ing was spreading her wings over the 
mountain, and that “darkness so great 
and that silence so profound” were forcing 
to rest, even at this early hour, the dwel- 
lers in forest homes. 

Andy and Percilla removed their shoes 
and lay down upon their straw bed for a 
dreamless sleep. 

Sal had no shoes to remove, nor did 
she remove her one garment or dress. 
Like Grandad and Maw she lay down 


11 


in the same clothes she arose with in the 
morning. But lying down was not going to 
sleep, as usual, with Sal, on this occasion. 
It was not often that so long a conversa- 
tion took place between these simple, silent 
mountain folk, and never before had Sal 
been a listener to such wonders. It was 
like the opening of a shutter to the unen- 
lightened mind of the little girl. Sal crept 
into her straw pallet, but her wide staring 
eyes refused to close. There was no win- 
dow in the cabin, but there were long open- 
ings between the logs where light and air 
crept in. Through one of these openings 
the tiny light of a far distant star 
peeped in and met the eye of the mountain 
child. It was the first time that Sal had 
ever noticed a star through the opening, 
for in fact it was the first time she had 
ever lain awake to wonder and to think. 
She looked at the star with wide staring 
eyes. By degrees she began to feel that 
the star was looking at her — yes, it really 
was, it really blinked, and then Sal smiled 
and nodded a bit, as if to let the star know 
that she knew it was looking and blinking 
at her. And then she began to whisper to 


12 


the star about the “little gals” with 
“slicked hair” and “frocks the color of 
blue bells,” and with visions of “towns 
and lots of towns” and of “chickens that 
lived in houses,” she at last fell asleep to 
continue to think in her dreams of the 
wonders that had been aroused in her 
mind by her “Grandad” of that big coun- 
try “beyan’ the mounting.” 

Years come and go on the mountain as 
everywhere else, only there is no respite 
from its loneliness, no happy seasons to 
bring joy and gladness, no variation to the 
bleak, empty lives in their desolate homes. 
Old Andy had worked harder than ever 
in his corn patch and in the little cave 
under a distant boulder, where his illicit 
distillery still defied discovery. Percilla 
spun the wool, which she got in exchange 
for “taters and sich” and wove it into 
cloth, and then made it into the rough 
garments which they wore. Her chickens 
still roosted in trees, for otherwise she 
could not have consented to wring their 
necks, and the cabin was still bare of com- 
fort. But somehow since the talk on the 
rock step, Percilla had thought more on the 


13 


appearance of things, and especially as she 
noticed little Sal digging up the ferns 
around the door and setting them in rows, 
and more than once she had attempted 
to “slick” the child’s hair with water or 
grease, and the new frock she had just 
finished weaving for Sal was dyed red 
with pokeberry juice. “And to think her 
own Mammy couldn’t er lived to have seed 
her look so peert,” remarked Old Andy, 
as he gazed admiringly at the child, “an’ 
she er startin’ for school.” “An’ to think 
its only tuck fo’ year to git the fifty dollars 
Maw,” he continued, as Percilla remained 
silent. “Only fo * year! Who’d er be- 
lieved it ? Lemme see, Sal was about go- 
ing on eight year when I had that two dol- 
ars an’ fo’ bits in the can. Now she’s er 
turnin’ twelve, and er peerter lookin’ gal 
I never seed, ’ceptin’ Sary.” 

“Is Uncle Jack cornin’ fer to take Sal 
next week?” asked Percilla. 

“Wall, hit all depends,” drawled Andy, 
“ef the crick’s up he mout not be able to 
take her.” 

“But the crick’s down,” replied Percilla, 
“an’ he sed how he’d take down the juice 
by the fust er the week.” 


14 


“Wall, then, he’s most likely to drap by 
most enny mornin’ befo’ sun up, so you 
better get her ready, Maw, and fix up her 
things a bit.” 

“I don’t like partin’ with Sary’s child, 
hit seems like she’s all we-uns hez what’s 
livening up on the mounting,” whined 
Percilla. 

“So it do, Maw, but then if Sary 
know’d, she’d be er wanting Sal to go. 
An’ hit won’t be no time fo’ Sal’ll come 
back full up with book lamin’ an’ sich. 
Landsakes erlive, and to think I’ve got 
fifty dollars right here in this old tin can 
fer to make Sal er edycation. Who’d er 
thought ?” 

Yes, who would have thought? Four 
years of self denial and hard work to earn 
the money to put Sal to school for one 
year. But when time counts for so little in 
human life, as far as pleasures go, the 
pleasure of counting the money in the tin 
can day by day as “two bits” and “four 
bits” were stealthily added, made the years 
seem short indeed to Andy and Percilla, 
for never before had they handled so much 
money at one time, nor had any other in- 
terest ever so absorbed their meager lives. 


15 


Sal was a pathetic little figure in the 
pokeberry home-spun frock, as she took 
her seat in the two- wheeled rig with Uncle 
Jack to start to school. For four years her 
little mind had continually dwelt upon that 
talk of the school-lady and town, so it did 
not seem altogether strange for her to be 
leaving. She had been expecting to go ever 
since that night when she first became con- 
scious of the star looking at her, and she 
had gathered many a blue bell to plant in 
her fern rows, after hearing of “rows and 
rows of flowers” and of “frocks the color 
of blue bells.” But she had not expected 
to feel that tightening in her little heart as 
“Maw and Grandad” lifted her beside Un- 
cle Jack. 

“Hold on to the can , Sal,” Old Andy 
whispered hoarsely, “hold onto it tight an’ 
give it to the school-lady yo’self, Sal, an’ 
tell her me an’ Maw hev.been savin’ uv it 
ever since I seen ’er. Now, don’t be cry- 
ing, Sal, we-uns air goin’ to save lots of 
chestnuts an chinky-pins fer to send you, 
an’ lots of hick’ry nuts, too, and we-uns 
air goin’ to take keer uv the squir rills, and 
the dawg.” 


16 


“Don’t git mud on yo’ pokeberry, Sal,” 
remarked the grandmother, folding in the 
skirts of the new home spun, “an don’t let 
go yer holt uv the can.” 

Such was the parting. Uncle Jack drove 
off with a cheery “Good Day,” and Percil- 
la and Andy sat down on the rock step to 
smoke. 

“Hit don’t seem the same,” Percilla re- 
marked. 

“But Sary would er wanted her to go, 
Maw,” was the tender reply. “But who’d 
er thought uv Sary’s gal goin’ to school ?” 

Miss Williams took the little girl by the 
hand, as Uncle Jack lifted her out of the 
buggy at the school room door. It was 
Sal’s first ride in a buggy, her first sight 
of town, or of anything beyond the log 
meeting house on the mountain, and the 
two “store houses” at the Forks, where 
whiskey was usually smuggled in exchange 
for the few simple requirements of the 
mountain people. The can containing the 
precious money was safely delivered to the 
“school lady,” who was bravely choking 
back some strange emotion in her loving 
heart at the simple remarks of the moun- 


17 


tain child entrusted to her care. “Savin’ 
uv it ever since.” Why, it seemed centu- 
ries since that day she had invited the two 
old mountaineers to see her school house, 
so many things had happened, so much had 
she done. And all that time they were 
keeping their word to send the “little gal.” 

Sarah, as she was now to be called, had 
never seen a house with bedrooms and an 
eating room, and a living room, and a 
cooking room, and a room to “larn” in. 
But she accepted the situation with an in- 
tuitive adaptability, inherent in the Anglo- 
Saxon, and though she could not quite un- 
derstand the reason for putting on the 
white nightgown Miss Williams provided, 
nor why she should be wrapped between 
two snow white sheets in a bed off the 
floor , she asked no questions and made no 
remarks. Inquisitiveness is not one of the 
characteristics of the mountain children, 
and her life of remoteness from other 
children made her also shy and reserved 
with the children at school. But it was 
not long before Sarah was fairly at ease 
in the little town school and in the town 
itself. Miss Williams had not been notified 


18 


of her coming, and Old Andy would have 
been dumbfounded had he known that 
she had almost forgotten the incident of 
his visit. It was an event to him, and a 
daily thought that she would be expecting 
Sal as soon as he could get the money. 
But Miss Williams was glad that the com- 
ing had been after school hours, and no 
one but herself had seen the child in her 
pokeberry dyed frock. It was not so 
much the home-spun as the style of that 
remarkable garment. A neat gingham of 
simple make was substituted next morning 
and the matted mass of “tow” hair was 
smoothly brushed and tied with a “blue 
ribbon string,” to Sal’s amazement and de- 
light. The class had been duly informed 
of the new boarding pupil, and advised in 
kindness to be considerate of the little 
girl, who could not read or write. And 
so it was that under the tender training of 
the little “school lady,” whom they all 
loved, the little mountain flower grew and 
developed with wonderful unfoldment. It 
was a little hard at first to understand the 
new language and to drop such expres- 
sions as “we-uns” and “you-uns” and to 


19 


wear shoes all the time, and to use knife 
and fork and napkin correctly. But some- 
how, though a silent child, Sarah found 
herself drawn out by the little friends in 
school and often she told them of the 
mountain and of her pet squirrels, her 
blue bells and ferns, and of Maw and 
Grandad and the chickens that lived up 
the trees, and of the star that she talked to. 
Many times her eyes grew misty as she 
recalled it all, and strange longings came 
over her with that tight feeling in 
her little heart, which she had told Uncle 
Jack “hurted her” as he drove her to 
school. 

But it was the story of Christ which 
made the deepest impression upon this 
child of the hills. Again and again would 
she ask to be told of the loving Father, and 
often would she ask if His word would 
ever get to the mountain, and if Maw and 
Grandad would ever hear the promise to 
them that believed. The little Bible which 
Miss Williams gave her was more to her 
than all the world. Page by page she 
slowly learned to spell the Word and to 
wonder over its meaning. Book learm 


20 


ing, however, did not come as readily to 
her as the understanding of her lessons in 
sewing and cooking. No girl in school 
kept a cleaner, sweeter room than did 
Sarah. Her room with its “bed off the 
floor,” its neat, simple furnishings, and her 
Bible and glass of flowers was a sacred 
shrine where she worshipped. It was 
wonderful to see the transformation day 
by day of this child of nature. It was 
wonderful to see her character expand 
and round out, and to recognize the 
thought forces at work in the deep set look 
of her great brown eyes. That plans were 
forming in her mind, even at so early a 
day, was evident, and that those plans 
were of the mountain no one could doubt. 
No word had come from the lonely cabin 
home only a bag of chestnuts and “chin- 
key-pins” had been left at the school one 
day and no one knew when, or by whom, 
but Sarah knew who sent them and was 
satisfied. She had never until now realized 
that she loved her home in the mountains. 
In fact, she had never realized the 
meaning of love until now, and now she 
was ever thinking of it, and of Grandad 


21 


and Maw and of the time when she should 
go back to them with her Bible and the 
books Miss Williams said she should have, 
so as to teach the mountain people how to 
read. And “Grandad and Maw can learn 
to read of Christ,” she mused to herself, 
“and of Cinderella.” Such was the night- 
ly dream of the child now entering her 
teens, and drawing near the dawn of 
womanhood. Uncle Jack had been in 
town, but he took good care not to drive 
near the school when he did so. A mighty 
sorrow weighed upon his troubled mind, 
and a mighty secret as well, but he always 
found out in some way of Sarah’s welfare, 
and the news of her wonderful “pearance 
and sich like” was carried to the cabin on 
the peak where Percilla sat waiting. 

“Hit don’t seem right,” said Uncle 
Jack, as he gave the news of the latest ac- 
count of how “Sal had growd” and “how 
putty she was gitting.” “Hit don’t seem 
right that Andy should hev to be er hidin’ 
out and er livin’ like the critters all uv these 
months to pay fer that little corn juice 
what made the fifty dollars.” 

“Why Percilly, ef Sal knowd her 


22 


Grandad was er hidin’ from the pen’ten- 
tiary, she’d hate them books!” 

“That’s what I know,” replied Percilla, 
“and Paw he ses not to let her know for 
nothing. But hit do seem powerful lone- 
some with Paw and Sal both gone.” 

“Haint Andy got in of late?” asked 
Jack, lowering his voice and glancing 
around to make sure that no one heard 
his question. 

“Not since I seen you,” replied Percilla, 
very low. “Them revenues keeps sich a 
look out, I’m afeerd sometimes that Andy 
will starve to death befo’ I can git er bite 
uv vittles to the cave. They have mighty 
nigh tore up the side uv the mounting 
looking fer him and the still. I reckon 
they are watching me, too, but I haint 
afeerd uv um as long as I has ‘ole ances- 
ter,’ as Paw calls this here gun.” 

“Haint Andy got no gun in the cave?” 

“You better bet he hev ; we have two of 
these here ‘ancesters,’ an’ if they had only 
been loaded the day them revenues raided 
the house and the hay stack, where the 
juice was kept, the Governmint would be 
a lookin’ for the revenues instead uv the 


23 


revenues lookin’ for Andy. Hit’s mighty 
hard to keep under kiver, and but for the 
juice Andy would die uv chills in that 
mounting cave.” 

“And to think the law should be put on 
him for making er little money out of corn 
juice so Sal could go to school,” whispered 
Jack, “an’ his own corn at that.” 

“Ef we-uns’ ancesters fit fer indepen- 
dence, Andy, he ses, he shell stand fer 
independence twell he dies,” whined out 
the faithful wife. “An’ if they gits Andy, 
me an’ Sal ken make the juice, I reckin, er 
we’ll die er trying, sho’s you air born.” 

The year passed and still no news came 
to Sarah from the mountain. Miss Wil- 
liams was more than glad to keep the girl 
undisturbed, and to give her the privilege 
of a fifty-dollar scholarship which some 
kind woman had donated, for the child’s 
improvement was simply marvellous'. 
Physically she had grown into almost 
perfect womanhood, though but half 
into her fourteenth year, straight and 
strong with the rich red of the 
summer rose in her cheeks, and a deep 
yearning look in her wide, thinking eyes. 


24 


The ozone of the mountain had held its 
own against the years of poor food 
and poorer cooking, and Sarah was 
more than pleasing to look upon. 
She had not taken to play, though 
she loved the hours outdoors, and 
by her own request she had been given 
charge over the chicken house and a small 
garden patch of her own. 

Sarah had seen her first Christmas, had 
passed through her first Easter, and had 
heard for the first time the deep tones of a 
church organ and the glad ring of a church 
bell. The world indeed was a wonderful 
revelation to her simple mind, and yet no 
desire to be a part of it seemed to touch her 
nature. One concentrated longing to take 
to the mountain something which the 
mountain in all its grandeur did not have, 
filled her thought and desire, and that 
something was the love of Christ and the 
uplift of intelligent living. More and 
more did she realize how far behind were 
her people on the plane of enlightenment, 
as her own mind expanded, and the knowl- 
edge of life and its meaning dawned upon 
her. 


25 


Two years went by, and still no word 
came. It was useless to send a letter, for 
even if it reached them, they would not be 
able to read it; not even the mountain 
preacher who spelled out the texts, which 
he had failed to make clear to his hearers, 
had ever attempted writing. 

Though the settlement of which I write 
was only forty miles from town it might 
as well have been in the middle of Sahara 
— so cut off were the scattered dwellers 
from progress and civilization. 

There is nothing more pathetic than the 
silent endurance and the untold suffering 
of the unlettered white man, who scorns to 
beg or steal, and whose ignorance of train- 
ing unfits him to work, except upon his 
barren hillsides and within his primitive 
sphere. Even there ’tis lack of enlighten- 
ment which holds him down. But there 
is an instinctive pride, the inherent feeling 
of being as good as anybody, that gives the 
mountaineer the consciousness of inde- 
pendence and personal liberty that is per- 
haps his strongest characteristic. He is 
generous, hospitable and kindly, but woe 
to one who interferes with what he con- 
siders his rights. 


26 


Sarah sat silently looking towards the 
distant mountain range from the school 
house window. The picture of Andy and 
Percilla sitting upon the rock step smoking- 
seemed to stand out before her with a ter- 
rible clearness. A determination was 
forming in her mind to try and reach them 
in some way, though how, she knew not. 
“They won’t know me,” she thought, 
“Grandad and Maw, they won’t hardly be- 
lieve it’s Sal.” A newspaper blew from 
the table to the floor at her feet. Sarah 
stooped and picked it up to replace it when 
her eyes fell upon the following head lines : 

“Old Andy, the Moonshiner, Ar- 
rested at Last After Evading the 
Penitentiary for Two Years for Il- 
licit Distilling.” 

“Old Andy” — “Moonshiner” — “Dis- 
tillery” — “Penitentiary,” were names 
she had heard from infancy, but had never 
seen written or printed before. Again and 
again did she spell it out and read it and 
re-read it, and by degrees the meaning of 
it began to dawn upon her understanding. 
“Grandad,” her “Grandad,” the only “Old 
Andy” to her knowledge, arrested, or 


27 


“tuck up” (as it came to her) at last. Yes, 
they had always been on the lookout. 
Even as a wee child she had known well 
enough to report the appearance of “fur- 
riners” (strangers) and to keep the jugs 
hid out. Not that they were doing any- 
thing wrong, oh, no ! but that their rights 
might not be interfered with. And now, 
“Grandad” was in jail — and “Maw?” At 
the thought of the kindly old woman who 
had ever loved her and mothered her 
in her own silent way, Sarah felt 
a sickening weakness overpower her 
for a moment. Then the dominant 
strength latent in her mind and body 
sprang forth like the quivering arrow from 
a well strung bow. With the paper in her 
hand she walked straight to her room. 
Her only personal possessions (save what 
Miss Williams had given her) were her 
home-spun frock and the quilted home- 
spun bonnet, which she had worn on her 
arrival. Often had Sarah held them in 
her arms when alone in her room, often 
had she examined the weaving and the 
stitches, as the recollection of Maw 
brought that same tight feeling to her 


28 


breast. She rolled the dress and the bon- 
net into a neat bundle, in which were the 
Bible and a picture of Miss Williams. 
Cutting the piece from the newspaper she 
pinned it to a slip of paper, which she left 
on the table, with these words written on 
it: 

“Miss Williams: 

Gone to Maw. 

Sarah.” 

When Miss Williams found the pathetic 
little note, she carefully hid it with the 
clipping in her hand bag. Instantly her 
mind took in the situation and instantly 
she resolved to shield the child from ex- 
posure. She knew that Sarah was fear- 
less and strong, and instinctively she felt 
that a power higher than her own would 
protect her until all should come right. 
She made no mention of the disappear- 
ance, and in fact evaded the subject so 
adroitly that the non-appearance of the 
girl at supper that night and breakfast 
next morning, was not noticed or com- 
mented upon. 

In the meantime, Sarah, with panting 

29 


breath and beating heart, was walking 
rapidly down the road. To get to the 
mountains was her only thought. She 
had never been afraid of the dark, nor of 
the woods, nor of “beasties,” nor in fact of 
anything save the revenue spies. On and 
on she walked. The roadway was clear, 
and seemed to be leading straight to the 
hills that loomed up in the far distance 
like great banks of darkness against the 
starlighted heavens. How far she had 
gone Sarah knew not, the only fact that 
impressed itself upon her was that the 
mountains seemed no nearer than when 
she started. She was not afraid, in fact, 
there was a feeling of a freedom she 
could not explain, of almost joy, as she 
held out her arms to the mountains, and 
felt the soft breeze of the summer night 
fan her heated brow, and heard once more 
the noises of the woods that enfolded her. 

On and on she walked, until fatigue at 
last put a restraining hand upon her weary 
limbs. Somewhere in the woods near by 
Sarah heard the gurgling of a stream. 
She pushed her way into the dense brush, 
but failing to find it, she seated herself 


30 


upon the broken limb of a tree, which 
obstructed her progress. It was very 
dark and very still, save for the weird, 
not unmusical notes of katy-dids, crick- 
ets, owls and other innumerable wild 
creatures of the woods. Sarah nestled 
herself confidingly against the broken 
limb. She did not try to sleep. She held 
the little bundle containing her pokeberry 
dress and her Bible close to her heart. It 
might have been taken for an infant, so 
tenderly did she hold it within her arms. 
Her wide staring eyes looked up into the 
star spangled space we call Heaven, but 
she did not seem to see those glittering 
gems of the night, nor did she seem con- 
scious of the weird noises vibrating in uni- 
son throughout the darkness around her. 
It seemed as if she were again in her class 
room — at school. Every day and every 
hour of the two years stood out plainly 
before her, but it seemed a dream. Miss 
Williams, the girls who had kindly ac- 
cepted her without ridicule — the little bed 
off the floor with its snow white sheets — 
the pictures — the books, and the wonder- 
ful revelation of those pages, the stere- 


31 


opticon views of the life of Christ, which 
she had seen — the tones of the organ in the 
little church she attended with Miss Wil- 
liams every Sunday, and the music of the 
singing floated out before her clearly and 
distinctly. But it was a dream! yes, a 
dream. Closer and closer she hugged the 
little bundle within her arms, until some 
subtle change of vibration brought to her 
consciousness the old life linked with its 
contents. Again she saw herself in the 
pokeberry home-spun sitting alongside the 
good old neighbor, holding a tin can and 
its fifty dollars wrapped in a home-spun 
rag, just as she was now holding the 
precious bundle to her heart. Percilla and 
Andy were standing behind her as real as 
if she were still sitting there with that 
strange tightness in her breast, waiting for 
Uncle Jack to drive off. Oh, the vision of 
that mountain as it stood out before her ! 
Every rock, every creek, every squirrel 
nest, every boulder seemed calling out to 
her. The log meeting house where the 
Preacher wrestled with the threatened 
terrors of hell, looked natural and 
real, and again she heard the quav- 


32 


ering strains of the hymns he gave 
out line by line, there being no hymn- 
books. Again she was shyly talking to 
Bud and Sis Colter, as she clung to Maw, 
and again she was listening to Uncle Jack 
tell of his latest hunt and escape in the 
woods from the “revenues.” Old women 
leaning on sticks, and young women were 
exchanging words regarding “rheumatiz,” 
and weaving, and old men bent and crip- 
pled were telling the young men, tall and 
lanky, how to make traps, how best 
to “git the fur and dry it, ef the 
bar got kotch.” Yes, they were all 
there, and Grandad, with his kindly 
greeting to one and all. Grandad, 
her Grandad, who lifted her to his shoul- 
der at rough places and carried her over 
the foot logs, if the creeks were high. A 
great cry came from her pent up soul. 
“Grandad ! Maw ! Maw ! Oh, Maw !” rang 
out again and again into the night. A 
long sob from her throbbing bosom was 
the only response. The agony subsided. 
The hard pressure of the Bible within the 
bundle strained to her heart brought the 
consciousness of God. Yes. He was 


33 


there, the Bible said so. Everywhere, 
even in the lonely woods, leading her, 
guiding her, taking her to Grandad and 
Maw. 

When she awoke, the sun was just ris- 
ing. She looked upon the great glowing- 
orb in the east with a puzzled wonder- 
ment. But by degrees she realized all. 
The little brook was soon located and she 
refreshed herself with its pure waters. 
Then came an actual plan of action. The 
pink gingham, or calico, should be ex- 
changed for the pokeberry, and the little 
straw sailor for the quilted sun bonnet. 
As both bonnet and dress had been made 
with an eye to “Sal’s growing” it was not 
a difficult matter to pull out the hem, and 
the tuck in the sleeves and a tuck which 
ran around the body above the belt. This 
done, the change was soon made. The 
calico and sailor were securely tied in the 
package with the picture and the Bible. 
“He’s leading and I shall follow” was the 
thought which accompanied her as she 
resumed her journey. “He cares for the 
sparrows, and He will care for me an’ 
Maw and Grandad.” She had walked sev- 


34 


eral miles on the road, which seemed to be 
leading to the mountains, and yet to bring 
her no nearer, when again she felt strange- 
ly tired. She did not realize that she had 
had no supper and no breakfast. She 
stopped by a running brook and drank of 
the water. On a mossy bank near the foot- 
log she sat down to rest. Perhaps she had 
not looked more pathetic two years before 
when the same dress came down to her 
feet, and the same bonnet a half yard more 
or less too far over her young face, than 
now when her expanded form was drawn 
tightly within the once too loose body, and 
the arms and the feet too far below, even 
though the tucks were now let out. Sit- 
ting thus upon the roadside unconscious of 
her remarkable appearance, Sarah was 
aroused by the splashing of wheels into 
the stream and the sudden command of 
“Whoa !” to the horse that was pulling the 
buggy containing a man. The horse 
stopped and the man stared. Where had 
he seen an image like that before — where? 
Where on earth had that exact dress, that 
exact bonnet, those exact eyes, looking up 
at him like the eyes of a deer, been seen 


35 


by him? Quick as a flash of recognition 
had come the rush of memory, which 
transported him to a mountain brook 
among the distant hills. Quick as a flash 
the scenes of long-forgotten trysts, where 
a simple mountain girl, believing and 
trusting, had kept faith for one wild happy 
week. He had not meant to wrong her. 
Youth and passion and the wildness of 
nature, and its irresistible wooings must 
be responsible. But that was fifteen years 
ago, when he was yet but a lad of eighteen 
accompanying a party of hunters and rev- 
enue officers for a few weeks’ sport in the 
mountains. And this — and this — is a 
child, the same child in looks that had 
loved him — but the child of fifteen he had 
wooed must now be a woman past her 
thirties. Can it? Could it be the hand of 
retribution from that thoughtless love- 
making among the rocks and flowers of 
long ago? 

“In the name of God, who are you?” he 
exclaimed, with a voice tense with 
emotion. 

Without moving and still looking at 
him with a strange wonderment, the girl 
replied simply : “I’m Sarah.” 


36 


If she had struck him, the effect could 
not have been greater. The flaming ex- 
citement in his face faded into the ashen 
paleness of fear and distress. 

“Sarah what?” he asked almost inau- 
dibly. 

“Just Sarah from the mountains,” was 
the answer. 

For a moment a great stillness fell over 
them. Presently he asked in that same 
strange voice : Are you ever called 
‘Sary?’ Your — mother — is her name 
‘Sary?’ ” 

“Maw’s name is Percilla, that’s what 
Grandad calls her,” replied the child. 

“Percilla — why, she was ‘Sary’s Ma,” 
replied the man. “Is — is Sary — did they 
never tell you of Sary — she must have 
been — your — mother — .” 

“No,” answered the girl, “they have 
never told me of Sary, or of any mother 
but Maw — but I hard Grandad say that 
Sary would have wanted me to go, when 
Maw felt so bad when I left for school, 
and I think he meant a grave what he and 
Maw goes to.” 

No further words were necessary. 

37 


Plainly the facts unfolded to his mind; 
yes — yes — and she had died, and the 
story of her wrong had been kept from 
the child, who knew of no mother except 
“Maw.” Lawyer Gray, as he was called, 
was not a bad man, in fact, he was one of 
the most respected citizens of his county. 
He had forgotten that first romance of 
boyhood in the busy years that followed — 
in the years of study for the bar. At 
twenty-five he had married a very charm- 
ing girl, and now at thirty-three he was 
well established in his profession of law, 
comfortably settled in a country home ten 
miles from the town to which he was driv- 
ing to attend court. A little girl of six 
and a boy of four had blessed his mar- 
riage, and life was fair and sweet to him, 
and he seemed at peace with the world as 
he drove along in the glowing sunlight that 
memorable morning. He still looked at 
the girl strangely and tenderly. 

“Sarah,” he said, very kindly, “where 
are you going?” 

“To Maw,” she replied. 

“Why are you here, where did you 
come from?” 


38 


By degrees he drew from the child the 
story, all of it. The can, the fifty dollars, 
the ride to school, the two years of silence, 
the educational awakening, the newspaper 
heading, the flight — all were poured out 
simply and truthfully to the bewildered 
listener. 

“And you have been in the woods all 
night, and have eaten nothing since noon 
of yesterday? But we have no time to 
lose,” he said, with a sudden start, “get in, 
Sarah, or I may be too late.” 

The child made no reply, asked no ques- 
tions. Under the spell of his suppressed 
emotion and tender command, she got into 
the buggy. Over the road her weary feet 
had trailed the night before and for many 
hours of the morning, the buggy flew as 
fast as the horse, which was a fine one, 
could go. At the Court house door, 
Donald Gray drew rein. Hardly waiting 
to tie the animal to the post, he led the 
young girl into his private office. “Rest 
here,” he said softly, “and put on that 
dress again, which you exchanged for this. 
I will have you some breakfast in a mo- 
ment.” A tray was soon brought from the 


39 


little hotel near the Court house, and Sarah 
revived her declining strength with a good 
hearty meal. 

“Now come with me, Sarah,” said the 
lawyer, “and promise me you will not 
speak or move, no matter what you see or 
hear, until I tell you to.” 

He looked at the child now clad in the 
well made calico and the simple sailor hat 
with a pink ribbon around the crown. 
“Sary — glorified” was his inward com- 
ment. “Would you — would you not let 
me adopt you and take you to a beautiful 
home Sarah,” he asked, “where my wife 
and little ones would love you, and where 
you can have books and music, and where 
I could be as a father to you?” 

“No, oh, no,” replied Sarah, shaking her 
head. 

“And why not, my child?” 

“The mountain calls me,” she said, very 
slowly. “I must go to Maw and Grandad 
and to my people.” 

A great wave of emotion swept over the 
young lawyer, like the wave of a mighty 
soul struggling in prayer. It was a soul — 
a soul verily struggling in prayer. ' Up 


40 


from the depths of his inmost being rushed 
forth the spirit of love that atones for the 
wrong, in the doing of right. A flood of 
feeling lifted him almost from his feet. 
“The call of the mountains” was beating 
upon his heart strings, and the cry for jus- 
tice was clamoring within his soul. “I 
must go to my people,” rang out like a 
clarion call upon his ears, a call never to 
be silenced again by the injustice of man. 

A note to Miss Williams had already 
been dispatched and before the Court was 
fairly called, that kind little maker of 
women was sitting close to the trembling 
girl and holding firmly and tenderly the 
cold trembling hands. For Sarah was 
trembling for the first time perhaps in her 
life. Her eyes were riveted upon an old 
man in a coon skin cap, with hands mana- 
cled in irons. 

“Grandad, Grandad,” she moaned in her 
heart, but not a sound not a sob escaped 
her lips. Rigidly she sat and listened to 
the glowing words of a soul on fire, to 
the most wonderful appeal ever made in 
Tennessee at the bar of justice. 

Without a friend to defend him or 


41 


stand by him, and without a hope, Old 
Andy looked with a face of stony despair 
upon the jury and the judge, and the com- 
monwealth’s attorney, whose cruel words 
of denunciation were yet ringing in his 
ears. But ere the Judge could pronounce 
sentence, Lawyer Gray reached the side of 
the old moonshiner, and holding high his 
hand to stay further proceedings, he ex- 
claimed in a tone that sent a thrill of sur- 
prise and expectation throughout the court 
room : “l am here, your honor, to defend 
this prisoner. I am here to plead his 
cause in the name of humanity and justice! 

“The State’s Attorney, in his condemna- 
tion, says it is justice, he says it is the 
law! But law and justice are on the side 
of wrong when justice and law have 
failed to carry the understanding of jus- 
tice and law to the unenlightened. First 
teach the law, your Honor, then adminis- 
ter justice and punishment to the law- 
breaker. But the citizen, who can neither 
read nor write, and has no conception of 
the true meaning and understanding of 
the Constitution of the United States, de- 
serves consideration at the seat of so- 


42 


called justice. And especially when con- 
ditions make the offence a natural result of 
necessity. The hounding of the impov- 
erished, unlettered men of the mountains 
by the revenue officers is a poor way 
to teach the law! ’Tis true, that 
the making of moonshine whiskey is 
the cause of fueds, bloodshed and crime, 
but back of the poisoned beverage is the 
ignorance — its primary cause. We grant 
licenses to saloons on every street corner 
for destroying life, the desolating of 
homes, the inflaming of crime, and yet for 
the pitiful sum of fifty dollars, of which 
you claim this man has robbed the Govern- 
ment, the sum total of four years’ earning 
by illicit distilling that a child might go to 
school, the law requires ten years of this 
man’s life in the penitentiary! Judge, I 
plead for mercy! I appeal to the jury for 
acquittal ! Do not condemn him, your 
Honor. Wrong has been done, but an- 
other wrong makes not a right. Forgive 
the offense this time, Judge, for the sake 
of his ignorance of the law, and for the 
sake of humanity. I stake my life 
in the place of this man’s life. I will 


43 


stake my life as a pledge that if you will 
pardon him, within the ten years you de- 
sire to send his body and soul to a chain 
gang I will endeavor to reclaim the moun- 
tain heights of Black Boulder. I will en- 
deavor to plant the tree of knowledge and 
the understanding of the law upon every 
hill-crest, with a school house and a Bible ! 
I will call upon the Christian nation to help 
me, I will call upon the churches, the in- 
stitutions of learning, I will appeal to phil- 
anthropy, to humanity, to God ! Give him 
a chance, judge. Give me a chance, give 
the Government a chance to right the 
wrong of neglect to these people of the 
hills. They are the descendants of the 
heroes who fought for our independence 
and freedom. They are the best defenders 
of America today, where her rights are 
questioned. Give them a chance by a bet- 
ter means than hounds and spies and chain 
gangs and educational neglect. They com- 
mit crime in the name of personal right, 
knowing no higher right, for the imperish- 
able characteristics of the Anglo-Saxon 
lie dormant in their souls. Let us carry the 
light into their darkness with Christian 


44 


and industrial training ; let us lift the cloud 
that hangs on their arrested progress and 
give them the sunlight of enlightened citi- 
zenship.” 

So great was the stillness that a pin 
falling could have been heard when Law- 
yer Gray ceased speaking. Old Andy had 
never taken his eye from the face of the 
speaker, and now as the orator sat and 
wiped the dampness from his brow, the 
old man still looked at him, dazed, 
amazed, bewildered. From whence had 
come this Daniel to judgment, from 
whence this cry of help for the moun- 
taineer ? 

When the shackles were unbound and 
the prisoner was led forth free, a mighty 
shout went up; it must have reached the 
throne of Him who once said : “Neither do 
I condemn thee, go in peace.” 

Above the ringing shout of men gone 
mad with enthusiasm and pride over the 
victory of their favorite lawyer, the strong 
glad cry of a woman’s voice called out: 
“Andy” — “Andy” — “I air here, Andy,” 
and unmindful of the surging crowd, Per- 
cilla, holding tight to Uncle Jack, pushed 
forward to the pardoned moonshiner. 


45 


As Andy took hold of the clutching, 
clawing hands of the joy-distracted wife, 
a pair of gentle arms encircled his wrin- 
kled, weather-beaten neck. “Grandad — 
Grandad — Maw — Maw — ” and Sarah fell 
weeping within their arms. 

“Why, lan’sakes erlive, hit’s Sal, as sure 
as I’m erlive,” said Andy, coming to him- 
self, “hit’s the little gal done growed into 
Sary — look, Mar, hit’s Sary as sho’ as I’m 
erlive.” 




Old Andy, the Moonshiner, is dedicated 
to the work of the Southern Industrial 
Educational Association of Washington, 
D. C. (incorporated and organized for 
promoting industrial education among the 
impoverished, uneducated mountain people 
of the Appalachian region). 

An unenlightened farmer who can not 
read knows little of the advantages of 
trade, and where there are no facilities for 
knowledge there can be no progress. Il- 
literacy in this enlightened age is a crime 
against humanity, and a shame to the na- 
tion. The high percentage of illiterate 
native born whites in the Appalachian 
mountains is a menace to the future wel- 
fare of this country. We give millions 
every year for foreign missions, millions 
for the education of emigrants and ne- 
groes. Let us give the same chance to 
these American children of the Nation. 

Donations for this great work will be 
gratefully received and officially receipted 
for by the Recording Secretary, Mrs. C. 
David White, 1459 Girard Street, Wash- 
ington, D. C. Literature and informa- 
tion can be obtained by applying for same. 




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LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 



